First frost has come and gone,
The log shed's full to the roof,
The flue is clear, the screens are out,
And the mice are coming in.
In wool i ride the rolling earth
In its turn toward the sun,
Moles nose up the falllow ground
Through bearded solidago,
My sleeves festooned with beggarticks,
My pantlegs wet with dew,
My fingers cold, my being warm,
Flush with gratitude.
